My Negritude

I refer to says as great poem
Got here to have a tour
Or paying that darkness
Statement of a return to the country where I was born
It isn't this poem that is first stated
The power to conception nature

My negritude is not a storm
It definates some drawn against the clamour of the day
My negritude is not a spec of dead water on the dead eye of it
My negritude is neither a tower nor contiguous
It shoot into the red flesh of the soil
It trust in the warm flesh of the sky
It base under the unpaid projection of it rivery picture

(A i a) for the royal collect with that
(A i a) for those who invented nothing
For those who have never discovered
For those who have never conquered
But struck the evidence self to the essence of all things
Ignore of citizens
But taken by the very movement of things
Not caring to conquer
But playing the game of the world
Truly the elder son of the world

Pour us to all the breath of the world
The tent of space
Of all the breath of the world
Ban without drain of all the waters in the world
Spark of the sacred five of the world
Flesh of the flesh of the world
Painting with the very movement of the world, tempered thought of ancestral virtues
Love blood
All our blood spilled by the veil part of the sun

Those who know the feminine nature of the moon's oil
Flesh reconcile exaltation of the antelope and the star
Those who survive on whose the determination of cracks
(A i a) perfect circle of the world and closed coordinate hear the white
Horrible fatigue by it's immense, it's rebellious articulations
Cracked under the hard stars
It's inflect abilities of blue steel, past the mystic flesh
Here it's treacherous victorious trumpeting it defeats
Here with brandio's alibis that beautiful stumbling

(A i a) for greed and the others of reincarnated tears
For those who explored nothing
For those who never mastered
A i a for joy
A i a for love
A i a for grief at the others of green carnivals
Here at the end of the dawn is mine

La la la
That I may not hear the mental
But it cries
My eyes fixed on the city
Which I prophesize shall be beautiful
Give me the savage faith
The sorcer give my hands the power to hold
Give my soul to the source
Now it a normal space
And forces don't get us to the boss
In a voice which places that not forgets
The sting electrical marching
And the voice declares the centuries of Europe

Has stuffed us with lies and bloated is the pestilence
But it not true that the word of man is finished
And we have nothing to do in the world
And we are parasites in the world
And we have only to accept the way
But the work of man has only begun